Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(6)
The woman I’ve been obsessing about for months steps inside the room, and I feel my breath leave my lungs. I knew she was beautiful, but seeing her this close and in person . . . I was so wrong. She’s not just beautiful, that word is too plain. Wearing the long white dress that flows over her body and ends in a short train, she is heart-stopping. Soft blonde curls are falling freely on either side of her face and down to her waist. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman with hair that long. She reminds me of an elven princess. I wonder what kind of monster I would be in that story.
Her head held high, she walks down the aisle with sure, quick steps, right toward me. She looks at me and holds my gaze, not a flinch upon seeing my ruined face and the eyepatch, not a falter in her step while she approaches. I expected a shy, timid girl, scared of the situation she has been thrown into, but there is no trace of fear in those eyes, just determination.
She stands before me, so beautiful and defiant, and I have this sudden, unexplainable need to touch her. To make sure she is real. It’s a strange feeling. I don’t enjoy skin contact with anyone except Lena. I don’t like it and I never initiate it.
The wedding officiant starts speaking, and as we turn toward him, I can’t resist brushing my finger over the back of her hand. It’s a small touch. I’m sure she won’t even notice it. The man in front of us keeps babbling, and I look down to steal another glance at my bride. She is on the short side, her tiny hand looking so delicate next to mine. Breakable. But then she looks up, and there is nothing fragile in those eyes that regard me without blinking.
He is not what I expected.
As the wedding officiant starts reciting his part, I don’t hear a word of what he says. My whole being is focused on the man standing by my side. When I entered the room and my eyes landed on his huge frame at the end of the aisle, I almost stumbled, and only the years of practice I had on the stage made me keep moving forward. He is built like a professional fighter, his wide shoulders straining the material of his jacket. He’s wearing a black shirt and black dress pants, and with his ink-black hair and that eyepatch, he looks like a dark avenging angel.
I didn’t notice the scars right away because I was too focused on his imposing figure. The largest scar starts above his right eyebrow and runs straight down his face, disappearing under the eyepatch and then continuing down to his jaw. There is another one next to it, starting from somewhere under the eyepatch and trailing down to a point slightly above the corner of his lips. The one on the left side of his chin, runs the length of his neck and disappears under the collar of his dress shirt. I have no idea what could have happened to him to inflict such wounds, but it must have been something horrific. Most men I know would have grown a beard to conceal at least some of the lines marring their face. Looks like my soon-to-be husband doesn't hide his scars, because he is clean-shaven as if he doesn’t give a fuck what other people might think.
The wedding officiant finishes his speech, and the man who is standing next to my groom approaches and places a small velvet box with wedding rings on the table. Mikhail takes the smaller one and looks at me, waiting. I raise my hand and watch as he slides the ring onto my finger without touching my skin. It seems like he deliberately avoided it. I take the big wedding ring from the box and raise it, but instead of offering his hand, he takes the ring from between my fingers and slides it onto his finger himself.
The officiant pronounces us a husband and wife, and motions toward the big open book lying on the table. There was no “you may kiss the bride” part, and I wonder if that was intentional or if he forgot, because the man seems strangely distressed, fidgeting with his hands, looking anywhere except at my husband.
Mikhail takes the pen, writes his name, and offers it to me. I look up and find him watching me like he’s expecting me to turn and bolt. Without breaking our locked gaze, I curve an eyebrow, then take the pen from his hand and sign my name. Bianca Orlov. It’s done.
I watch the crowd of people “attacking” the buffet tables, piling their plates with food and chatting loudly. Bianca is standing next to me, silently observing the room, and I have a feeling she’s not a fan of the crowds. We have that in common.
Roman approaches me, saying he’ll be leaving with Dimitri. He’s probably anxious to get back to his wife who stayed at home. I’m surprised he came to the wedding at all, considering how reluctant he is to let her leave his sight. He turns toward Bianca and introduces himself, offering his hand. When their palms connect, I’m consumed by a strange need to bat Roman's hand away from touching my wife.
“Do you want to leave?” I ask when Roman is out of sight.
Bianca looks over the crowd, raises her head to look at me and nods. I start toward the exit, motioning with my head to Kostya and the rest of our men. We are almost to the door when I feel Bianca’s hand touch my forearm, squeezing it lightly, and I tense for a split-second before willing my muscles to relax. She glances over at the table where her family is sitting as if she wants to say goodbye, so I turn and start walking in their direction.
The younger sister jumps up from the chair and rushes toward Bianca, embracing her around the waist and whispering something in her ear. Bianca takes a step back and starts signing with her hands. Making sure that nothing on my face shows recognition, I discretely watch her fingers form the words.